  From the Irish of the Book of Leinster Raise the cromlech high! And other men's renown Has leave to live again. Cold at last he lies 'Neath the burial stone. All the blood he shed Could not save his own. Stately, strong he went, Through his nobles all, When we paced together Up the banquet-hall. Dazzling white as lime, Was his body fair, Cherry-red his cheeks, Raven-black his hair. Razor-sharp his spear, And the shield he bore, High as champion's head— His arm was like an oar. Never aught but truth Valour all his trust In all his warfaring. As the forkÈd pole Holds the roof-tree's weight, So my hero's arm Held the battle straight. Terror went before him, Death behind his back, Well the wolves of Erinn Knew his chariot's track. Seven bloody battles He broke upon his foes, In each a hundred heroes Fell beneath his blows. Once he fought at Fossud, Thrice at Ath-finn-fail. 'Twas my king that conquered At bloody Ath-an-Scail. At the Boundary Stream And for Bernas battle Stands his name renowned. Here he fought with Leinster— Last of all his frays— On the Hill of Cucorb's Fate High his cromlech raise. T.W. Rolleston |
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